


Come Home to Me

by phichithamsters



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Death, Getting Together, Grief, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Mentions of blood and violence, Paired Sylvain and Felix ending, Post Azure-Moon, Post-Canon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, background Dimileth - Freeform, sylvix - Freeform, with beautiful illustrations by @satanslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25956601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phichithamsters/pseuds/phichithamsters
Summary: After the war, Sylvain and Felix both assume the titles of their respective lands, with Sylvain becoming the Margrave of House Gautier and Felix inheriting the role of Duke Fraldarius. Being separated by swaths of land doesn't stop them from keeping as close as they were in their monastery days, however, and on one sunny day, Sylvain shows up on Felix’s doorstep unannounced. From there, a playful rivalry blossoms between them. But when Sylvian arrives with a wedding invitation embossed with someone else’s name, Felix realizes that he can’t ignore his feelings anymore. He stops responding to Sylvain’s letters, forgets their petty rivalries, and ends two decades worth of friendship.But Felix and Sylvain are both fumbling their way through lordship and friendship, and Felix soon realizes that— for better or for worse— he and Sylvain will always find their way back to each other.This is a story of one-upmanship and sparring, of absent fathers and arranged marriages, of school uniforms and broken promises, or: five times Sylvain visits Felix and one time Felix comes to him.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> It's here! It's finally here! I've been working on this piece since March, and what started out as a simple 5+1 turned into _this_ , and really, I couldn't be more proud. 
> 
> The art for this piece was done by the ever-talented [@satanslash](https://twitter.com/satanslash) on twitter! Not only is she incredibly talented, but she worked incredibly hard to create illustrations for four parts! I am so in awe of her work in general, and I was humbled to work with her for this big bang!
> 
> I'd like to give a huge thank you to [Pep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeppyBismilk/), my amazing beta, cheerleader, and friend. This was born in the DMs, and she has been there every step of the way: from crying about summaries, to getting excited about pairings, to tedious edits and my terrible indecision about Felix's apologies. She also gets all the credit for Felix’s cat’s name, Claymore. Thank you, Pep, for being the best.
> 
> The title of this fic comes from the song [Come Home to Me by LÉON,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aoJHwkZ0mSA) which is the ultimate Sylvain song (and sets the mood for this fic nicely if you'd like some recommended listening).
> 
> And with that— I hope you enjoy!

_Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake_

_and dress them in warm clothes again._

_How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running_

_until they forget that they are horses._

_It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,_

_it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,_

_how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days_

_were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple_

_to slice into pieces._

_Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means_

_we’re inconsolable._

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._

_These, our bodies, possessed by light._

_Tell me we’ll never get used to it._

_(Richard Seiken)_

The war ends, and Felix finds himself alone.

Unlike the hustle and bustle of the war camps or the quiet camaraderie of the crumbling halls in Garreg Mach, the Fraldarius estate that Felix inherits is empty. It’s not devoid of people— there are plenty of servants and soldiers roaming the halls— but being the Duke means that Felix is placed on a pedestal, high above his men. His advisors are well-meaning but ignorant, his nobles are nothing short of a nuisance, and Felix still can’t get used to being waited on hand and foot. There was a certain level of service that Felix got used to growing up, but now that he’s the only one left of his family, all of the attention is on him.

And he hates it.

At the monastery, there was always a place to escape to: the training grounds, the gardens, the safety of his dormitory. But within Felix’s own castle, he is constantly being watched. He understands that this is for his own safety, but Felix misses his privacy.

More than that, Felix misses his friends. The occasional conference or celebration brought his old classmates from all four corners of Fodlan; most recently, it had been the marriage of Byleth and Dimitri. Everyone had been so happy to see each other again, sparkling wine in hand and flashy swords pinned to their hips. Not all of them had become leaders like he, Dimitri, and Sylvain had, but they were all eager to talk about their successes as part of the reunification of Fódlan. 

Ingrid had been helping resettle refugees in the former Empire territory, while Ashe established an ophanage to raise and rehome children in Fhirdiad. Mercedes was training as a priest at Garreg Mach, where Annette was currently working as professor. They had plenty of stories to tell about the _new_ Garreg Mach, and everyone had been eager to hear what had changed since the war ended.

As for the others, Dedue had traveled to Brigid along with Petra, and had since moved on to Almyra, where he was currently serving as Dimitri’s representative in their lengthy peace talks. Byleth was splitting her time between the monastery and Fhirdiad, and Dimitri was busy ruling a fragile new kingdom. 

Hearing their stories made Felix feel inadequate— his friends were helping to bring peace to a war-torn country, and Felix was stuck in his drafty castle solving grain disputes. 

And then there was the problem of Sylvain, who had been visiting Sreng at the time of the wedding and hadn’t been able to make the reunion. He and Sylvain had quietly drifted apart after the war’s end, but it was hardly anyone’s fault. They just became… busy. 

Sylvain had taken the title of Margrave, and Felix became the Duke. The war had changed Felix, just like it did all of his classmates, and he understood that some relationships were bound to change as well. But Felix never expected to drift apart from his best friend, the one he made a death-pact with. 

Sylvain’s only signs of life came from the letters he sent, once or twice a month, filled with pleasantries and such boring sentiments that Felix began to suspect he sent copies to all of his former classmates. As time stretched on, Felix couldn’t think of anything else to report in his letters other than the usual _“I’m fine, nobles are annoying, maybe Edelgard was right.”_

To which Sylvain would respond: _“I’m glad to hear it, I sat in council for 10 hours today, I always agreed with Edelgard on that part. Shame.”_

Felix is in the middle of one such letter (with several discarded copies littering the floor behind him), when his aide reminds him of his weekly council meeting.

“Shit, sorry,” Felix curses, glancing at his timepiece even though he knows he’s spent too much of his morning on a letter he probably isn’t going to send. (Since when did being a lord become so boring?)

He tells his aide to notify the council of his tardiness, and she leaves Felix to don his heavy cloak, pin his broach, fasten his sword belt, and then walk quickly to the council room. 

The early signs of spring peek out from the windows of the castle, and Felix regrets choosing his heavier, fur-lined robes this afternoon. The air still smells like snow, but a crisp sunlight dapples the tiny buds on the tree branches that crisscross outside the castle windows. It seems like Felix was the last to know that spring had reached the northern hills of Faerghus.

His thoughts still lingering on weather patterns, Felix opens the door to the council room. Much to his surprise, all of his advisors are already gathered around the table, and amongst them sits one Sylvain Gautier.

“Sylvain?” he sputters, trying to maintain an air of calm in front of the other dignitaries. It’s clearly not working, as he feels a flush creeping up his neck _and_ notices Sylvain smirking.

“Margrave Gautier has graced us with his presence today!” one of Felix’s advisors says, bursting as if he can’t contain his excitement. Felix just blinks between the man and Sylvain.

Sylvain’s face splits into a great grin and he stands up to greet Felix. “Lord Felix, is truly a delight to see you,” he says, extending his hand. Felix shakes it warily, unfamiliar with the way Sylvain is speaking to him. Maybe being the Margrave has taught him a thing or two about manners.

But no, as Sylvain squeezes his hand tighter than necessary and Felix sees the twinkle in his eyes, Felix realizes it’s all an act. Somehow, Felix respects that even more.

“Margrave. I wasn’t expecting you,” he says, taking a seat. Sylvain must have arrived early, because he’s planted himself directly to Felix's right.

Sylvain leans back in his chair, casually. “Thought I’d stop by for a visit. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, Fe— Lord Felix.”

It’s a small slip-up, but Felix catches it and tucks it away for later. There is more in the words that Sylvain doesn’t say than what he does, but Felix can read between the lines. He and Sylvain have always been able to pick back up where they left off, no matter how long they had been apart. During the war, they spent three years fighting on opposite ends of the map, only to reunite in Faerghus and fight side-by-side, falling into familiar rhythms like no time had passed at all. 

Or when Glenn had died, and Felix didn’t leave the castle for a year. When Sylvain’s family came to visit, Sylvain had just taken Felix by the sleeve and they went out to hit things in the woods, few words passing between them. They had never needed to talk.

So, Felix sits back and watches his friend at work.

Sylvain as the Margrave is exactly like Felix excepts. He lights up the room when he talks, all of Felix’s advisors falling under his charm as he recounts his epic tales from the border with Sreng. Sylvain makes even the mundane sound exciting, heroic, lordly. Felix would have never guessed that he too, was bored with his job, if it weren’t for his occasional letters assailing his nobility. 

The meeting turns out to be less focused on strategy and more on storytime, but that’s okay. It isn’t like there is much strategy to discuss in the first place, what with the peace in Fódlan and all.

“And so, essentially, that’s how the land tax on the nobility was able to boost the economy of the vassal state _and_ appease the smaller feudal lords,” Sylvain says. Felix’s advisors are scribbling notes as fast as possible, nodding at him with wide eyes.

“Hm, we hadn’t even considered that!” one of Felix’s advisor’s pipes up. “Lord Felix, do you think drafting this kind of legislation could be possible within the next few moons?”

“Um, sure,” Felix grumbles, growing sour under the attention now directed his way. He feels himself fumbling in the spotlight, eager to impress Sylvain with his own leadership but painfully aware that Sylvain has always had more of a mind for diplomacy than Felix ever could. Sylvain can charm the pants off of anyone. Felix has always been described as “difficult to work with.” 

The castle bells toll noon, saving Felix from further embarrassment. Servants come in laden with trays for lunch, and the conversation turns casual. Sylvain smoothly thanks a dark-haired serving girl and tears into his food with vigor.

Felix can only pick at the meal in front of him. A servant stands in the corner of the conference room, scanning the room with a careful eye. The second that any one of them pushes a plate away, he is there to whisk it away and pour its owner a healthy serving of wine.

Felix has always found it uncomfortable to be watched while eating. He prefers to take his meals alone in his room.

Instead of sorting the vegetables on his plate for a third time, Felix turns his attention to Sylvain. “So, why are you actually here?” he asks, a notch below the lively conversation of his advisors. 

Sylvain wipes his face with a napkin and looks at Felix with genuine confusion. “I’m here to see you. Is that so unbelievable?”

Without hesitation, Felix responds, “Yes.”

Sylvain laughs, a barking kind of sound that even makes Felix crack a smile. “I should have known,” he says, still chuckling. “Well, I just thought we hadn’t seen each other in a few years, and therefore, I hadn’t had a chance to kick your ass at something in quite some time. And before you ask, I _did_ tip your stable boy, and I brought a gift for the quartermaster’s new baby, so plus ten chivalry points to me.”

Felix can only balk. He had only heard about the birth of the quartermaster’s child earlier that week, and Felix just sent him a congratulatory letter and relieved him of duty for the rest of the moon. Felix hasn’t even gone to talk to him, and here Sylvain is, armed with a gift for the man’s newborn and he doesn’t even live here.

“How did you even know…” Felix trailed off, unsure of what to ask.

“I write a lot of letters in a day. You’d be surprised at how few of them are actually addressed to dignitaries,” he says. “And besides, I practically grew up in this castle. I still keep in touch with most of the servants from our childhood.”

And then, Sylvain adds: “They let me know what you’re up to.”

He says this while cutting a piece of steak, like it’s the most casual sentence in the world, but Felix’s mind is spinning. He can’t understand why Sylvain would want to keep up with what Felix is doing, especially if he could have just asked Felix himself. It’s not like they don’t keep up a correspondence, however dry it can be sometimes.

But more importantly, Felix has been “up to” a whole lot of nothing since the war ended, while it seems like Sylvain is single handedly resolving Fodlan’s nasty relationship with Sreng. He’d entered peace talks with their leaders and even crossed the border a few times on diplomatic convoys. Why would Sylvain care what Felix was doing?

By the grace of the Goddess, Sylvain stops Felix’s rambling mind by changing the subject. “Since I’m here for the day, I thought we could hang out together. Maybe take a walk, have some tea, catch up?” 

Felix sighs. “I can’t today. I have to do a land survey this afternoon.” As much as he wants to rekindle their friendship, Felix is still, unfortunately, the Duke.

“Then I’ll come with you!” Sylvain says, undeterred. “We can race!”

“Are you five years old?”

But Felix agrees to it anyways, and after lunch, he and Sylvain set out to visit one of the towns just south of the castle. True to his word, Sylvain immediately pushes his horse to a sprint and takes off into the distance. Felix tries to shout after him, reminding him that part of a land survey means that Felix actually has to survey the land. But Sylvain is too far away to hear him, so Felix ends up chasing him anyway.

And it ends in a tie. Felix definitely does not lose.

The land survey, unsurprisingly, goes much quicker than Felix had planned, and the two arrive back at the castle while the sun is still high in the sky. Felix knows he’ll most likely have to redo the survey in the coming weeks, but he doesn’t mind. The thrill of galloping on a horse, wind whipping his hair out of its tight braid and into his face, Sylvain whooping loudly as they thunder across the open plains— that makes it all worth it.

In the stables, Felix proposes tea. Sylvain graciously accepts and agrees to meet Felix in the garden.

Felix stops by the kitchen to heat up the water. He grabs his favorite kettle, rusted around the rim but still perfectly functional, and stokes a small fire to warm it. The kettle is his and his alone; the kitchen staff has come to understand that the Lord Felix likes things done a certain way, and they have also come to accept his constant presence in the kitchen. Felix never calls for snacks or tea, he just walks down to the castle’s vast kitchen and gets them himself.

Unfortunately, it seems like the kitchen is out of Sylvain’s favorite tea, so Felix settles for a Bergamot blend (a close second), grabs a scoop of Four Spice for himself, and kicks open the kitchen doors, balancing a tray stacked high with biscuits, honey, sugar, warm milk, and two small tea cups.

When Felix arrives at the castle garden, Sylvain is already sitting in the gazebo at the center of the courtyard. Somehow, he even manages to look warm in the cold spring air, the fiery strands of his hair glowing with the sunlight. It’s like the sun’s rays are playing music on his skin, dancing across the flecks of hazel and gold in his eyes, dotting his face with summer’s first freckles. Felix makes his way over carefully, as if stepping too loudly will shatter the image in front of him.

Felix can’t lurk forever, so he clears his throat a little. When Sylvain sees him with the tea tray, his face lights up in a kind smile.

Felix sets the tray down on the table and they stir in their various accoutrements: milk and sugar for Sylvain, a small spoonful of honey for Felix. The soft tinkling sound as they stir their tea compliments the occasional chirping of songbirds in the garden.

Sylvain sips his tea with a sigh. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” he says.

“Hm?” Felix mirrors his sip, the warmth of the tea soothing his throat and chest.

“I don’t sit down for tea anymore just to talk, you know? Not like we did at the Academy,” Sylvain says. “Nowadays, I only take tea when I’m working, or in council meetings, or late at night when I’m doing paperwork.”

Felix hums. He knows the feeling. 

“This is nice,” Sylvian comments lightly, taking another sip of tea. “It reminds me of being at the Academy.”

More words pass unsaid between them, silent reflection on the divide between who they were and who they have become, vast as the cliffs of Alliel. 

“I should get in touch with Ashe,” Felix says, unprompted. “He’s supposedly sending me a squire. An orphan rescued from the streets of Fhirdiad.”

Sylvain snorts. He tries to hide behind his teacup, but Felix glares at him. “What.”

“It’s just…” Sylvain’s laughter is barely contained. “You don’t seem like the fatherly type, Fe.” 

Sylvain erupts in laughter at his supposed wit, and Felix rolls his eyes.

“He’s _seventeen_ ,” Felix huffs. “I will not be _fathering_ him in any way.” 

“Oh, but Felix, he is going to look up to you! You know what they say, about squires being the sons you’ve always wanted.” 

“I have never heard that in my entire lifetime,” Felix says. “Besides. You know how I feel about _children_ ,” the word comes out with a modicum of disgust. “I’m simply training the boy— why am I defending myself to you anyway?”

Sylvain shrugs. “Well, if your fatherly instincts kick in, don’t come crying to me. I’ll just tell you ‘I told you so.’”

Felix grumbles, “What fatherly instincts?” and tosses a lone sugar cube at Sylvain. He doesn’t even make an attempt to dodge it, letting it fall into his lap. To Felix’s disgust, he just picks it up and drops it into his tea.

“What?” he asks, stirring. Felix sighs, because he chooses his battles wisely.

“Nothing,” Felix says. “Have you been in touch with any of our classmates lately? They missed you at the wedding.”

It’s just one word, but Sylvain catches it and latches on immediately. “I know you missed me too,” Sylvain teases, but it’s too close to the truth, and something twists in Felix’s heart. “Anyways, other than letters, I haven’t been able to take too many trips. It’s been a while since I’ve even seen Dimitri— I mean, His Highness.”

Felix nods. The peace talks with Sreng were fraught with tension, and simple negotiations often took months. Any mistake, any slip-up could start an all-out war. It was like Sylvain was walking on a tightrope over a valley of fog, and he can’t even see the end.

“Oh!” Sylvain pipes up. “I have seen the professor recently. Byleth came to visit last moon. It was nice. We mostly spent time debating religion and training, but it was nice.”

Felix feels a twinge of jealousy. It’s been a while since he’s even heard from the professor, but he still feels a deep connection with her. He attributes most of his growth to her teaching, her steadfast leadership, and most of all, her kindness. 

Well, she wasn’t the only one that helped make Felix a better person. The man sitting in front of Felix also had something to do with it, but Felix would be hard-pressed to admit it.

Sylvain must perceive Felix’s silence (correctly) as jealousy, because he raises an eyebrow. “Felix, are you jealous of me? I’m sure the professor meant nothing by it… but she _has_ always liked me a little more than the rest of our classmates.”

Felix scoffs. “Shut up Sylvain. I was never interested. Besides, none of us could even compete with His _Highness_.”

Sylvain opens his mouth, shocked, like he’s surprised Felix noticed. “I _know,_ ” he says, conspiratorially. “It was like none of us could get a word in edgewise. The second you began talking to her, there he was, sulking in the corner of the classroom!”

Felix laughs easily, the memories of Dimitri’s oblivious crush on the professor resurfacing. Felix can almost hear his excited “Professor!” as Felix imagines him waving Byleth down.

“Honestly, he was _insatiable_ ,” Felix says with a wink, and then he grins again. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed petty court gossip with his best friend.

Sylvain chuckles too. “Truly,” he says. “But enough about me. What has the esteemed Shield of Faerghus been up to?” he asks.

Felix feels he can be honest with Sylvain, and it’s a relief to finally admit. “Truthfully, it’s boring,” he says, and then, more quietly, “I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a lord. I think I should have just become a knight.”

There would have been no one to succeed him if Felix had given up the Dukedom, but many a night, eyes bloodshot from paperwork, head swimming from a day jam-packed with meetings and solving paltry disputes, Felix would lie awake in bed and imagine what his life could have been like if his father had survived.

Felix doesn’t expect Sylvain to understand, but he does feel relief when Sylvain sighs, puts down his teacup, and quietly responds, “Yeah.”

Both Sylvain and Felix are younger than their fathers were when they had assumed their titles. Felix doesn’t _feel_ his age often, but sometimes it's hard to believe he’s only 27. He sighs. It’s no use mulling over what could have been, especially when he has a territory to run and people to protect. All he can do is keep moving forward.

He says as much, and Sylvain chuckles at what he calls Felix’s “unwavering pragmatism.” Felix blushes a little at that— it isn’t an insult, but he’s still embarrassed.

It’s then that a crisp breeze passes through the gazebo, and Felix is reminded how cool the nights up north can become, even in early spring. The sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, playfully peeking out from behind some clouds. He’s just about to offer Sylvain dinner and a place to stay for the night when a servant appears by the edge of the garden, holding a message. Felix nods him forward, and the servant gives the small scroll to Sylvain. 

From what Felix can see, it isn’t sealed with wax, so he reasons it’s probably a freshly transcribed message. He waits for Sylvain to finish reading, waving the servant away before he can clean up their afternoon tea.

Sylvain nods and pockets the scroll. “Old man wants me home,” he reports. “Seems like there might be some trouble at the border.”

“Trouble?” Felix feels the concern furrowed on his brow. “I can ride up with you tonight—”

Sylvain waves his hand to cut him off. “It’s all good, nothing that me and the ol’ lance can’t handle,” he says with a smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Don’t call the Lance of Ruin the ‘ol’ lance,’” Felix grumbles, pushing away from the table. Sylvain gets up as well, and they walk out to the stables together.

The stable boy brings Sylvain his horse, and Sylvain slips something into the boy’s hand with a wink. Felix pretends not to notice.

“I’ll be back for a rematch, you know,” Sylvain says from up on his mount. 

“What rematch?” Felix scoffs. “That was barely a race.”

“I know,” Sylvain says. “That’s why I’ll be back.” 

“Well now that I know you’re coming, I can prepare,” Felix says. “This seems to be a flawed plan.”

“You’ll never see it coming, Fe,” Sylvain laughs. “Stay on your toes!”

And with that final warning, Sylvain spurs his horse forward, out into the cold air and setting sun. 

Felix watches him thunder away, growing smaller until he is no more than a dot in the distance, before he turns back and walks into the castle.

The halls are still quiet and empty, the servants’ voices lowering to whispers as he passes by. But no matter how vast, the castle feels less lonely. Felix has a promise, and it fills the space like a thousand voices.


	2. Two

The next time Sylvain comes, he will be prepared. Or at least that’s what Felix tells himself.

He hates the idea of being one-upped a second time in his own castle. In between meetings, sparring, and training his new squire, Benji, Felix makes sure the kitchen is stocked with peach sorbet and roast pheasant, that someone has ordered Seiros Tea from the traveling merchants, and, most importantly, that he himself is ready. Felix trains: he stops riding his horses leisurely and asks the stable master to give him tips for how to get a horse to sprint. Felix takes up jogging as a hobby, trying to capitalize on his propensity for running long distances just in case Sylvain challenges him to a race.

He starts requesting to fight lances, cutting back on training against other swords or axes.

Sylvain’s letters, now more lively and detailed, give no hint or clue to when he will visit next, or what antics he will bring with him. Even still, it’s nice to keep up a steady correspondence again. 

Felix tells no one else in the castle about his little rivalry with Sylvain. It’s always more fun when Felix doesn’t see it coming. So when Sylvain drops by for the second time, unplanned and unprompted, Felix is prepared. 

Or, at least he thinks he is. 

Because he does not expect to see Sylvain walk through the doors of his office at high noon on the 26th day of the Verdant Rain Moon wearing his old Garreg Mach uniform. 

Which still fits him, perfectly. Way too goddamn perfectly. 

Felix’s eyes go wide and he drops the quill he’s writing with, splashing ink across his letter. 

Then his face flushes hot as he scrambles to clean up the mess, getting ink all over his hands in the process. Sylvain just stands in his doorway, looking smug and self-satisfied and the whole scene is like something out of Felix’s nightmares. 

Felix can’t look him in the eye, because he’s too busy staring at Sylvain’s _uniform._

Back at Garreg Mach, Felix remembers how much he kept to himself, throwing himself into his training and his studies with little time for anything else. Except Sylvain. He always made an exception for Sylvain, no matter what dumb scheme he wanted to pull or what girl he wanted to swindle. Felix put up a fuss, of course, but he always relented in the end, following Sylvain around like an angry shadow as he charmed the pants off of everyone in the monastery.

And Felix remembers how much he both craved Sylvain’s approval and hated his own desire for it, how much he admired Sylvain’s loyalty and cursed him for letting it get in the way of his own life. A part of Felix had always loved Sylvain; that much had been true since they were children. But until they arrived at the monastery, and Felix had laid eyes on Sylvain in that uniform, Felix hadn’t considered that their childhood friendship could turn into something more. 

Felix had thought his petty crush from the academy days was long-since over, but seeing Sylvain in that gold-detailed blazer sends him careening back 10 years. But Felix isn’t concerned with past crushes as much as he's irked by Sylvain’s appearance. No matter how much Felix prepared, he couldn’t have prepared for _this._

Neither of them speaks for a moment. Felix leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

Luckily, Sylvain surrenders first. “So, I found out my old uniform from the academy days still fits,” he says, a snarky little grin plastered across his face. He does a twirl and so does Felix’s stomach, but he’s not sure whether it’s from disgust or something else. 

“What do you think?” Sylvain asks. 

“That’s not something to brag about,” Felix says. “It just means you haven’t grown in 10 years. Frankly, you should be worried.”

Sylvain laughs, and Felix rolls his eyes at how easily his iciness slides off of Sylvain. It’s probably because he’s had almost three decades of practice. 

“Still taller than you, Fraldarius,” Sylvain says with a wink, and Felix fumes, because he’s right. Like always. 

“Well, now that you’ve shown yourself off, I guess you can go now,” Felix says, turning back to his desk. He throws away the soiled letter and begins to write on a fresh piece of parchment. “I have a lot of work to do today.”

“Aw, c’mon Felix, you’re no fun!” Sylvain whines, and suddenly he’s leaning over Felix’s desk, inches away from where Felix’s hand is poised to write. “I rode all the way over here in my old uniform, and that’s it? You’re just going to send me away?”

Felix puts the quill down as calmly as he can, even though his urge to have Sylvain escorted out of the castle is growing with every word. “I’m sure you can find something to entertain yourself with. This is a large castle,” Felix says. He leans back in his chair, meeting Sylvain’s pleading eyes with his cold ones. 

“Felix,” Sylvain whines again, and Felix groans. 

“You’re insufferable,” Felix says, and then throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine! I’ll put a pause on the urgent matters of, oh yeah, _running a literal territory_ so we can hang out.”

Sarcasm drips from his voice, but Sylvain is either immune to it or doesn’t choose to hear it. 

“I knew I could break you, Felix Hugo Fraldarius!” Sylvain says. “That’s my boy.”

Those words send a shock down Felix’s spine, one that he never felt when he was staring at Sylvain during his academy days. Maybe it’s because Sylvain had never referred to Felix as “his” before. Maybe it’s because Sylvain is suddenly obsessed with using Felix’s _full name_.

But unlike Felix, Sylvain has moved on and is blathering on about horses. “So I was thinking we could start with a race. One of your servants told me you’ve taken up riding more seriously! I’m looking forward to some actual competition this time.”

Felix sighs mightily, on the off-chance that someone castle might hear him and rescue him, and then follows Sylvain out of the room. 

No one comes. They must be immune to his moodiness as well.

“Oh, also, can I borrow a horse? Caroline is probably still pretty tired from her ride over here,” Sylvain says, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. 

Felix rolls his eyes, but he lends Sylvain a mare anyways. 

Sylvain has always been good at riding, Felix thinks once they set out. Sylvain was destined to become a paladin the moment he was born into the world with the minor Crest of Gautier, from the first time his father had saddled him on the back of a horse and whipped the reins. 

But Felix figures Sylvain would have turned out more or less the same whether or not he had a crest; Sylvain _adored_ horses when he was a kid. Felix remembers watching as his friend ran his horse in circles around the stables, occasionally, walking by Sylvain’s side as he trotted through the meadows around the castle. One time, Sylvain even picked up Felix and plopped him onto the back of his horse when they were making the long journey between their estates with their fathers, and Felix hated it. He’d always despised the way the horse’s gait would jostle his bones, the way the wind would tangle his hair into brambled knots that he would spend the entire evening combing straight, the way his legs would shake and wobble after a mere thirty minutes gripping the horse’s flank.

Not much had changed, and Felix still preferred traveling on foot, but he found the solitude of riding horseback to be comforting. As riding a horse became a necessity during the war, Felix warmed up to the creatures, and was able to travel longer distances by horseback. When he was installed as a Duke, Felix was gifted a mare. Over the years Felix had grown quite fond of the animal (even though he would never admit it to anyone but her).

But it doesn’t matter how much he’s grown to accept horses; racing with Sylvain doesn’t come with a “Most Improved” Award. So Felix loses, but it’s a close race. He watches the wind blow through Sylvain’s hair as he sprints ahead of him and he forgets the childness of it all— he lets himself chase. 

The race finishes at a small lake secluded by trees, and the memory of the place is enough to make Felix crack a small smile. He and Sylvian used to pretend to be kings of the forest here, adorned with daisy-chain crowns and their fathers' capes, swinging around large sticks and defending their castles from evil. 

And then, without fail, one of them would push the other one into the lake. It was deep enough to fully submerge them as kids, and so they would shed their robes and splash and play in the water until one of their fathers’ knights found them and dragged them back to the estate, dripping wet and sharing secret smiles.

Sylvain dismounts and finds a branch on the ground. He gives it a quick practice swing and jabs it forward with the swift motion of stabbing a lance. 

“Your Royal Highness,” Sylvain says, bending his body deeply in what looks like some hybrid between a curtsy and a bow. “Welcome back to Fralgautier Palace.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but he dismounts and snaps a branch off the nearest tree. “I always thought that name was stupid,” he says. Never one to be outdone, though, Felix twirls the branch in his hand and easily steps into a lunge, branch at the ready. It feels good to pretend, to remember a time when lordship was as far away as the stars in the night sky. 

Sylvian grins. “I always loved this place,” he says wistfully. “It sounds stupid to say, but things were always so simple here. Ruling here was easy. We could do whatever we want.”

His words carry a weight to them, something darker and heavier than what lies on the surface. Felix feels it too— the kindness of this place feels lost to time, a youthful innocence that they can never return to.

“We didn’t even have any subjects. It’s easy to rule when you barely have a kingdom,” Felix retorts, an attempt to keep the mood light. Nostalgia never sat well with either of them.

“And somehow, we would still end up at war,” Sylvain says with a wink, cocking his head towards the still lake in front of them. Felix scoffs.

It’s deep summer in Faerghus, which means it’s finally warm enough up north for the children to play outside, free of the burden of the coming harvest. In the secluded quiet of the lake, the breeze is gentle and the sun’s light is warm, but not harsh enough to burn. All around them are vibrant shades of green, painting the trees a shade of _alive_ that only comes once a year. Felix can even hear the gentle call of a birdsong, echoing through the quiet forest. Everything else is far, far away.

They both walk over to the water, and Sylvain takes off his boots and sets them on the bank of the lake. They aren’t the white ones from his academy days— apparently, those are the only pieces of his uniform that don’t still fit him.

Felix watches Sylvain wade into the water, letting the gentle ripples lap at his calves. Sylvain lets out the most self indulgent sigh.

“Water feels great!” he calls to Felix, who is standing only a few feet away.

“I’m not following you,” Felix says. He’s content to stand on the soft grass and watch Sylvain make a fool of himself.

“Oh, come _on,_ Fe!” Sylvain complains. He splashes out of the lake, and Felix has to hop backwards so that he isn’t caught in the wake. “Loosen up, will you?”

And then Sylvain sheds his jacket, and before Felix can ask him what he’s doing, Sylvain is taking off his shirt and hopping out of his slacks. 

“What the hell—”

“It’s just like old times!” Sylvain says, and discards his undergarments with a laugh and runs back into the water. 

Felix’s eyes feel like they’re going to bulge out of his head, and he has to hide his face in his hand to conceal the blood that rushes to it.

He tries his best to disguise his secondhand embarrassment. “Sylvain, you can’t just run naked into a lake in the middle of the day—”

“Why not?” Sylvain yells. He dunks his head under the water and comes up shining. “I don’t have a change of clothes.”

Felix is mortified. Sylvain splashes around like a child, floating on his back, swimming leisurely around the lake. Felix watches, a mix of disgust and intrigue broiling in his gut.

“Felix!” Sylvain calls again, gesturing him into the water. Felix is determined not to budge, no matter how tempting it looks, no matter how good the water looks on Sylvain’s skin, gleaming droplets that fall gracefully down the curves of his back.

“People could _see_ us,” Felix says, but he feels his resolve weakening by the moment.

“So what? We’re lords. We can do whatever we want!” Sylvain responds cheerfully. 

“We both know that’s not true.” Felix crosses his arms for good measure.

Sylvain stops swimming and stands up to look Felix head on. The water is only waist high, and it dances playfully around Sylvain’s hips. Felix tries not to stare too hard (even though he does sneak a glance).

“I thought you were brave,” Sylvain taunts, and Felix grimaces, because Sylvain’s hit a sore spot and both of them know it. “You used to take down ten Imperial soldiers without batting an eye, but you’re scared of swimming in a lake?”

They both know that’s not what’s stopping him, but Felix’s pride is wounded nonetheless. Sylvain has him by the throat.

Felix groans loudly. “You’re insatiable,” he says, and he begins to unfasten his sword belt. 

Sylvain lets out a whoop from the water, pumping his fist in the air triumphantly and then falling back under. Self-consciously, Felix quickly sheds the rest of his clothes and wades into the water. Sylvain gives him the decency of turning his back. 

The water is cool when it hits his chest and, goddess, it _does_ feel good. Felix lets out a deep breath and rolls his shoulders, trying to melt some of the tension that’s knotted in them. His own reflection stares back at him from the surface of the water, distorted by ripples, but Felix can still see the shadows under his eyes. 

Felix undoes his hair, letting it tumble to his shoulders. Then, he dips his head into the water, letting himself submerge. He stays there for a few moments, and the sounds of the forest fade into the quiet of the water. It’s so peaceful that, for a moment, Felix considers staying there forever.

When he emerges and wipes the water from his eyes, he catches Sylvain staring. Sylvain watches him break the surface and he breaks into a grin. 

“I like it down,” Sylvain says.

Felix scoffs and ties up his hair, but he turns away, hoping Sylvain won’t catch the flush that spreads up his neck.

They spend the afternoon afloat, sharing stories of their childhood under a sky without clouds. Felix stays a respectful distance away, usually keeping only his head above the water. 

When the shadows of the trees start to grow longer, Sylvain gets out of the water and lays out on the grass to dry in the sun’s remaining light. For once in his life, Felix doesn’t question him— he just steps out of the water and lays down beside him.

They ride back to the castle, still slightly damp but the silence is comfortable. Felix offers a change of clothes and a room for the night, but Sylvain politely refuses. Felix shrugs and they walk to the dining hall.

He and Sylvain sit down with some of his knights, who cheerfully welcome Sylvain as a servant brings them food. They eat ravenously, having both skipped lunch to play make-believe in the woods. 

“Oy, Margrave, is that a Garreg Mach uniform you’re wearing?” One of Felix’s knights asks. He waves his spoon in the direction of Sylvain’s outfit.

A serving girl named Morgan stops by their table to clear their dishes, and Sylvain grins widely in her direction.

“Yep, still fits like a glove!” he says proudly, and Felix’s men laugh. 

“I’m not sure if that’s something to be proud of, sir,” says another knight, Edward, trying to hold back his laughter.

“That’s what I said,” Felix mumbles, but he’s trying not to laugh himself. He should chastise his men for being disrespectful, but he’s hardly setting a good example. Morgan is still hovering around their table, and she seems to be giggling to herself.

Sylvain is unphased. He clasps his hands behind his head nonchalantly and leisurely turns his attention to Morgan. “I disagree. Besides, just because I was this size back at the academy, so what?” Felix watches Morgan’s eyes meet Sylvain’s and she blushes. “Some things have gotten bigger, if you know what I mean,” he adds.

In the instant that Sylvain finishes is innuendo, three things happen. One, Sylvain winks at Morgan. 

Two, Morgan’s eyes go wide.

Three, Sylvain lays a hand on Felix’s leg and squeezes.

Time collapses into a singular point and it’s on Felix’s thigh, gripping him so tightly he might bruise, and Felix doesn’t know what would be a greater sin— the mark that it leaves, or the fact that he’s enjoying it.

Not now, not now, he can’t think about it now, not with Sylvain touching him, holding him, gripping him like a lifeline. Felix needs a lifeline. He can’t breathe.

His body moves on its own, and Felix sharply jerks his leg away. 

Sylvain glances at him, confusion written across his brow but Felix turns away quickly, staring at the empty table in front of him.

His knights continue their earlier conversations, seemingly unaware of what has transpired under the table. For that, Felix is thankful.

Sylvain falls back into it as well, but Felix stays quiet for the rest of the meal. 

The easy peace from earlier has shattered and Felix is back on the defensive, like a cat that’s waiting to strike. For a while there, Felix had remembered how easy it was to trust Sylvain, to open himself up to him like they were children; he’d forgotten why he had closed himself off to Sylvain in the first place.

Until, of course, Felix was reminded. He was always reminded. It never took that long.

“You okay?” Sylvain asks as they exit the dining hall. Felix is snapped out of his train of thought and he gives nothing more than a noncommittal grunt. 

Sylvain furrows his eyebrows. “If I did something wrong, I hope you would tell me,” he says, and Felix feels a twinge of guilt. “But it was nice hanging out with you today. By the lake.”

Felix nods. Sylvain doesn’t press further, which Felix is thankful for— he’s never been good with handling confusing feelings, and if Sylvain had pushed Felix would have snapped. And he wanted to end their visit on a good note, even if Felix has to force it.

“Me too,” Felix says. 

When Sylvain leaves, Felix offers no more than a few words and the promise of a letter. Sylvain doesn’t try to touch him again, and for that, Felix is thankful. He waves goodbye from the castle wall, and watches Sylvain ride off into the night.

Then, Felix returns to the kitchen, brews himself a cup of tea, and searches the cupboards for some extra sweets. He wraps them in cloth and sets them aside for Morgan before returning to his chambers for the night.


	3. Three

Sylvain’s letter arrives like it always does, tied up with a crimson ribbon, emblazoned with the wax seal of House Gautier. Ever since Sylvain had visited last Spring, their correspondence had become a routine, of sorts, for Felix. Sylvain’s letter would be placed on his desk, mid-week, delivered personally to his room. The rest of his mail was brought to his office, as per Felix’s request.

Usually, Sylvain’s letters are no more than trivial, small diplomatic updates parsed between anecdotes of his latest triumphs over both animals and women. ( _ “They said she couldn’t be tamed, but now she’s the fastest mare in the territory!” _ ) Other times Sylvain writes about the people he’s seen— old classmates, allies, knights who served with them during the war. ( _ “Annette’s father, what’s his name? Giblet? He came by the castle last week.” _ ) On particularly uneventful weeks, Sylvain will report on the movements of deer that plague the gardens, or the mice that somehow get into the food hidden in his room. 

Felix, in turn, keeps his letters brief— the comings and goings of the minor lords that ask House Fraldarius for assistance, the training progression of his new squire, and the latest updates from his beloved cat, Claymore. ( _ “The other day, she knocked my dagger off of my desk with only her paw. I’ve never been more proud of her.” _ )

Felix has come to expect the contents of Sylvain’s letters, more or less. Leading a territory feels like Felix is constantly on his toes— almost more so than when he was fighting in the war— and Sylvain’s letters are nice, friendly, and most importantly, predictable. 

Felix tears open the seal of the latest correspondence and scans it quickly. There are bandits on the border of Sreng, House Galatea is sending a batallion, the deer are continuing to terrorize the cabbages— Felix stops reading abruptly. In the middle of a sentence, buried between clauses of diplomatic dredgery, Sylvain has written:

_ “An entire battalion of knights, and Ingrid still refuses to visit? Well, she’ll have to come for my wedding. Speaking of which, my father has finally arranged for me to marry. He’s only been threatening this for a decade now, so it’s about time he makes good on his word.” _

There is no mention of his bride to be, not even a name. Disgust flares up in Felix’s chest, and without thinking, he violently crumples the parchment in his fist. He wants to throw it into the fire, but when he looks at the glowing embers that remain in his fireplace, Felix can’t bring himself to let it burn.

_ “Speaking of which, my father has finally arranged for me to marry.” _

He wants to rip it to shreds, and, at the same time, he wants to read the words over and over again until they’re seared into the back of his eyelids. 

Felix refuses to dig deeper into his feelings, instead opting for action. His fist is still clenched tightly around the letter, so takes a deep breath and opens his hand. Using a nearby book, Felix gently smooths out the creases and folds of the letter with care. Then, he opens the lowest drawer in his desk, places the letter in the empty chestnut suite, and locks the drawer for good. The key, he hurls out the window with a toss that wrenches his shoulder painfully. 

What Felix thought would be a welcome catharsis leaves him feeling more hollow than before. It looks like he’s in need of something stronger than burying his problems— he needs to hit them. He grabs his cloak and heads towards the training grounds, slamming the door behind him.

_ “He’s only been threatening this for a decade now, so it’s about time he makes good on his word.” _

Surprisingly, hitting things doesn't help to improve his mood in the slightest, so for the rest of the night and into the next week, Felix sulks— even more than he usually does. He snaps at his advisors, his knights, even his squire, Benji, who gets all blubbery when Felix calls him incompetent. 

“I don’t mean that, Benji, I just—” Felix sighs. It’s no use explaining his bad mood if he can’t even fully fathom it himself. “Take the rest of the day off,” he tells his squire. “We’ll pick up again tomorrow.” 

Benji thanks him tearfully, and Felix hates himself just a little bit more.

Felix doesn’t write Sylvain back that week, or the next, or the next. He doesn’t bother to read the letters Sylvain sends him. He regrets throwing his desk key out of the castle window, because each time he has to find a new place to lock away all of Sylvain’s letters. Felix can’t bear to look at them.

His advisors begin to notice his mood shift, and as the weeks go by, it seems to dawn on them that this isn’t something that can be fixed by giving Felix his space. The castle grows chillier with each passing week, like Felix’s bad mood has summoned the winter winds. Unfortunately for Felix, the absence of Felix’s advisors makes him feel more alone, but he still can’t help himself from snapping at them whenever they do have the misfortune of crossing his path. 

On the fourth week, Sylvain doesn’t even send a letter. Felix worries for half a second before realizing its absence is actually blessing in disguise. Felix wouldn’t send letters to someone who has stopped replying, so why should he expect Sylvain to? At least he won’t have to find another hiding spot for the letters. Only three curled pieces of parchment, and Felix is running out of unoccupied corners. 

The fifth week arrives, and no letter appears on his desk. Felix is starting to feel better— or, at least less volatile— and he’s already apologized to Benji (and Ashe, who sent him a letter scolding him for taking out his frustrations on the poor boy). 

Felix is walking to the great hall for supper when he hears a voice that stops him cold in his tracks. He must be close to cracking, he reasons, because there’s no way he’s just heard Sylvain’s loud laughter floating above the rumble of people enjoying their evening meals. Felix sneaks into the kitchen to see if he can observe anything from a safe distance. Luckily, the cooks don’t question his sneaking around, even if they do raise a stray eyebrow.

Felix peeks into the great hall, and, Goddess smite him, he’s no closer to crazy than before. Sure enough, Sylvain Gautier is in the great hall, dining and laughing with Felix’s most elite knights. Felix watches him take a large bite out of a leg of mutton and pat someone on the pack boisterously— it’s Benji, sitting and laughing along with the rest of them.

_ Traitor _ , Felix thinks, and rescinds his apology. 

Felix and Sylvain don’t  _ fight. _ If one of them ever got angry, they wouldn’t talk it out— they’d either ignore each other until it came to blows or it blew over. But they had always given each other space to decide how to work it out, which is the  _ opposite _ of what Sylvain is doing now. 

Felix grabs some bread and cheese from the kitchen counter and stalks back up to his chambers, sulking the entire time. 

What in the Goddess’s name could Sylvain want? Felix mentally scans through the upcoming missions that he was aware of, and none of them included Sylvain coming even remotely close to Fraldarius territory. But then again, Felix had ignored Sylvain’s last few letters. Sylvain hadn’t been planning on visiting any time soon, but Sylvain had also set a precedent of dropping into places, despite whether he was wanted there. They had their little “rivalry” going on, but Felix had just assumed that was over, what with Sylvain preparing for his  _ wedding _ and all.

The word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

It’s so like Sylvain to drop in unannounced and complicate Felix’s life further, right after Felix had repressed his feelings deep enough to bury them six feet underground. 

Felix takes the long way back to his office, tearing into his bread angrily. He decides he’ll camp out there for a while before returning to his quarters. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can avoid Sylvain long enough that he’ll just leave. Tomorrow, Felix thinks, he’ll go for a ride, maybe meet up with the scouts along the southern border. He’s been meaning to check up on them for a while, and who better to do it than the Duke himself?

He turns the corner, and to his surprise, Sylvain is standing outside of the door to his study, hand poised to knock. When he hears Felix’s footsteps, he whips around quickly, stopping Felix dead in his tracks.

“Felix!” he says cheerfully, and Felix’s stomach sours. “I’ve been looking for you! None of your advisors seem to know where you are.”

Felix scowls. “I’ve been busy,” he says bluntly, pushing past Sylvain and into his office. 

To his annoyance, Sylvain follows him inside. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. I was starting to get worried,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. 

Felix feels a twinge of guilt. He looks away. “I’ve been busy,” he repeats. He sets his loaf of bread down on his cluttered desk— because, so much for dinner, his appetite is long gone— and sits down. He picks up a pen and begins to scribble some notes on a recent correspondence from Mercedes. 

He can feel Sylvain standing there, just watching him, and it’s infuriating. For once, Felix wishes that Sylvain would just take his words at face value and not  _ push. _ Unfortunately, it is exactly like Sylvain to push— he sticks around and endures Felix’s cold stares and monosyllabic answers, trying to find some deeper meaning behind it all.

“I have a lot to take care of tonight,” Felix says. He doesn’t even give Sylvain the courtesy of looking up from his desk. He’s not sure if he doesn’t want to look Sylvain in the eye, or if he can’t.

Sylvain clears his throat. “Um… okay then. Maybe we can catch up tomorrow?”

“I’ll send a servant to prepare a room,” Felix says curtly. He will suck up his pride if it means ending this conversation faster.

He tries to ignore Sylvain, eyes trained on the words in front of him, but he can’t focus with Sylvain in his doorway. All of his senses are tuned to his physical presence, and none on the letter he is supposedly working on. Felix reads the same sentence over and over, until, when he finally looks up, he realizes Sylvain is gone.

Felix doesn’t sleep well that night, but he doesn’t dare roam the halls like he usually does when insomnia banishes the pretenses of sleep from his body. When the early hours of dawn roll around, Felix swipes some slices of bacon from the kitchen and eats them out by the stables. He saddles up his horse and sets out before the sun comes up.

Felix is ill-prepared to do anything other than ride aimlessly, so that’s what he does. The thick fur cloak he’s wearing does little to cut the chills from the late fall air. Felix’s breath comes out in steamy puffs as he tries to brainstorm new and innovative ways to avoid Sylvain. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can get through this visit unscathed. 

Felix is restless, so he only stops to water his horse along the river’s muddy banks. He rides for hours— through the village behind the castle, down the riverbank, through the farmer’s fields— until he feels his head start to clear. The sun tells him it’s noon when he finally gets hungry enough to turn back. Another hour of riding and he can see the walls of the castle, his castle, in the distance.

Felix arrives at his castle, trotting his mare across the moat and into the stables. And then, because Felix’s luck has all but run out, he bumps into Sylvain. Again.

Sylvain is packing up his horse, readying it for travel ( _ good _ , Felix thinks), and it doesn't look like he’s spotted Felix yet. Felix dismounts quietly and walks his horse to its stable, dunking into the bag of feed and letting his horse eat from his hand as he strokes her mane. He doesn’t dare look behind him, but after a while it sure  _ sounds  _ like he’s alone. 

Maybe Sylvain has grown tired of putting up with Felix’s moods once and for all, Felix thinks. The idea makes him feel nauseous, but Felix prefers it to the alternative— telling Sylvain how he feels.

But then, Felix hears a voice from behind him. “Hey, Fe.”

_ Fuck. _

“What,” Felix asks. His horse isn’t finished eating, so he doesn’t turn to face Sylvain. As if he could.

“I was going to head out soon, but I’m glad I caught you,” Sylvain says. “I wanted to give this to you in person. I didn’t know if my letters were going through.”

Felix wipes his hands on his trousers and finally turns around. Sylvain is holding a small piece of parchment, embossed with a white seal and a coat-of-arms Felix doesn’t immediately recognize. 

He takes it from Sylvain, breaking the wax unceremoniously.

“It’s a wedding invitation,” Sylvain says. “I was really hoping you could make it.”

Felix gives the letter a cursory glance. It’s written in a sloping script, embossed with two more crests on the inside of it.

_ Felix Hugo Fraldarius is cordially invited to the wedding of Sylvain Jose Gautier and Fiona Lousie Lapointe. _

His vision blurs as he hovers over the names, reading and rereading. It’s like the letter from Mercedes— he stares at the lines but can’t seem to comprehend their meaning.

Felix blinks, slowly, and looks up. “I can’t make it,” he says, holding out the invitation. “I have a mission that week. Scouting some new territories with Claude.” The words taste sour in his mouth but he forces them out anyway. 

Sylvain takes the parchment hesitantly. He thinks for a moment before speaking. “Are you mad at me?” he asks.

“Why would you think that?” Felix asks, but it comes angrier than he intends.

“You’ve been ignoring me this entire visit. What the hell am I supposed to think about that, Felix?” Sylvain is starting to lose his temper, and the twisted part of Felix takes satisfaction in the edge in his voice.

“I’m just  _ busy, _ ” Felix says, through gritted teeth. He can feel the rage boiling under his skin; he’s angry at Sylvain, himself, the entire kingdom. 

Sylvain scoffs. “Fine. If you won’t tell me why you’re mad at me, maybe you can beat it out of me, like old times,” he says, adding a hollow laugh at the end of it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m done taking your shit, Felix.” Sylvian says. “You don’t get to ignore me. Not anymore.”

And then he adds: “Training grounds,” before turning on his heel.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Felix yells after him. but Sylvain is already walking away. Felix groans in frustration. While Sylvain may have a point, he still doesn’t like to be told what to do. 

Sylvain is already testing the weight of a wooden sword in his grip when Felix finally catches up to him.

The sight of it is almost amusing, and Felix can’t help himself. “No lance today, Margrave?” 

Sylvain doesn’t look up when he walks in. “So you  _ haven’t _ been reading my letters!” he laughs, but it’s far from a happy sound. “Well, I’ll fill you in: I’ve been practicing with swords. Fi’s family are sword-wielders, and my old man thinks it’ll be good if I know the basics.”

Hearing Sylvain call his bride-to-be by such a doting nickname makes Felix sick to his stomach— especially one that sounds so much like his own nickname— so he doesn’t give Sylvain the satisfaction of a response. He grabs his training sword from the wall and stalks into the middle of the pitch. He scuffs his heel into the dirt floor, kicking up some dust as he takes his stance. 

Sylvain finally picks out a wooden sword and takes up a lazy stance on the opposite side. It’s been months since they’ve sparred, but it seems like the addition of another weapon hasn’t changed Sylvain’s general disinterest in taking things seriously. 

“So are you gonna tell me why you’re mad at me?” Sylvain asks. Felix sneers and charges him.

His first pass is careless, and Sylvain parries it easily. Felix turns over his shoulder and swings again, but Sylvain sidesteps without lifting his sword.

“You’re sloppy today.” Sylvain says, and a fire flares inside of Felix. “There must be something _awful_ _heavy_ on your mind.”

“Shut up and fight me,” Felix growls. He lunges again, and this time he gets closer to his mark, grazing the side of Sylvain’s arm. Sylvain responds swiftly, landing a jab into Felix’s stomach that makes him double over. 

Felix uses his low angle to swipe at Sylvain’s legs, but Sylvain just dodges that as well. The fire in Felix’s blood is raging now, and he channels all of his rage into the blade.

He sweeps his sword in an arc overhead, clashing against Sylvain’s in front of his face. Sylvain grits his teeth as he pushes against Felix with both hands, and Felix can see the exertion in the sweat that gathers on his brow. It disgusts Felix to no end.

He growls and plants his foot into Sylvain’s chest, sending him stumbling backwards. 

Sylvain has the audacity to laugh between coughs. “That’s the Felix I know,” he taunts, face splitting into a crooked smile. Felix is infuriated. He knows Sylvain is baiting him but he charges anyway, wooden blades meeting in flurries of splinters over Sylvain’s waist, his shoulders, his chest. Felix can’t seem to land a hit and it drives him mad. Sylvain blocks him without effort, too easily for someone who’s just picked up the sword.

Of course he is good at this, Felix thinks, bitterly. Sylvain has never had to work for a single thing in his life.

Sylvain gets in close and his elbow connects with Felix’s nose. Felix stumbles backwards; he knows his nose is broken before he tastes the blood. 

Sylvais saunters to the other side of the arena, and is tossing the sword between his hands. His smirk is so cocky that Felix wants to punch the expression right off of it. 

“Are you going to talk to me now?” Sylvain asks. 

Felix wipes the blood from his face with a grimace. “Shut up.”

“What’s wrong, Felix?” Sylvain taunts. Felix seethes, and Sylvain must know he’s pressed a button, because he stops tossing his sword and leans forward. 

“I told you to shut up,” Felix says.

“Are you going to make me, or are you just going to pout because I’m better at weilding a sword—” 

Felix cuts him off with a shoulder slammed directly into Sylvain’s gut. Sylvain falls and Felix drops his own sword, pinning Sylvain to the ground, fist poised to punch. Sylvain looks shocked, and Felix lets himself feel a brief moment of satisfaction.

The moment of hesitation is all Sylvain needs. He throws Felix off of him, sending Felix tumbling across the pitch. Felix hits the back of his head. Through blurry eyes, he watches Sylvain pick up his sword and walk over to him. Felix tries to hoist himself off the ground, but he’s greeted with a boot on his shoulder and the wooden tip of a sword under his chin.

“I yield,” Felix spits. He’s panting heavily, and Sylvain’s foot isn’t making it easier to breathe.

“That’s not how this works,” Sylvain says. The sword presses deeper into his neck, forcing his head upwards uncomfortably. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“This is over,” Felix growls. “You won. Let me go.”  _ This is ridiculous _ , he wants to say.

“Not unless you talk to me,” Sylvain says. He puts more weight into his heel, sending pain radiating through Felix’s arm until Felix cries out.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Felix says, through gritted teeth. His head is spinning and he feels like he’s going to vomit. Felix wants to hide, to run as far away from this situation as possible; Sylvian has seen Felix beaten down many times before, but not like this, and never by his own hands.

“No,” Sylvain says. His voice is infuriatingly calm. “I told you, you need to talk to me.”

_ “Fuck off— _ ” 

Felix is cut off by a sharp kick to the side. He instinctively tries to curl up in pain, but he can’t even move because Sylvain’s foot holds him in place. It’s humiliating, but Felix can’t help but feel like he deserves it.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Sylvain asks, his voice growing louder with each word. Felix almost wants Sylvain to knock him unconscious.

“Why are you mad at me?” Sylvain asks again, digging the sword into Felix’s chin, hard enough to bruise. Felix’s vision starts to water. 

“Tell me!” Sylvain screams, and Felix finally closes his eyes.

The blade under his chin relaxes, and Sylvain removes his weight off of Felix slowly.

In the instant Sylvain steps off of him, clarity and rage flare within Felix and he snaps his eyes open. He kicks out his leg blindly, sweeping Sylvain off of his feet. He hears Sylvain hit the ground with a thud as he scrambles to his feet. He can’t take it anymore.

“I told you to shut up!” Felix screams. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Sylvain? Do you want to beat me within an inch of my life just to hear me say it?” It comes out in a rush.

Sylvain groans, but he doesn’t make any move to stand up. “Say what?” he echoes.

“Fuck you.” Felix looks away, and then, because he’s tired of denying it, of holding it in, he says: “I don’t want you to get married”

Felix doesn’t feel the rage or heartbreak or betrayal from moments ago. When he finally confesses, his body is eerily empty. 

Sylvain exhales from where he’s laying, somewhere behind Felix. Felix turns away. He’s disgusted with both of them, at himself for admitting his feelings, at Sylvain, for forcing them out of him. 

To his surprise, hot tears gather at the corners of his eyes. Felix refuses to cry in front of Syvlain, so before they can fall, Felix turns on his heel and storms out of the training grounds.

His feet take him to his room and he falls down on his bed fully clothed, his limbs aching enough to tell him how sore he’ll be tomorrow. It hurts to breathe, but he can’t remember Sylvain hitting him in the chest.

After a few minutes of listening to the stillness of his room, he hears a soft sound at his door, which he ignores. The sounds turn to scratches, and Felix realizes his cat is waiting to be let in, so he drags himself off of the bed to crack open the door. Claymore struts in, purring and circling Felix’s legs, oblivious to Felix’s current state. 

She hops up on the bed and Felix follows, curling on his side and wrapping his arms around himself. When he wakes up, the afternoon light streaming softly through the window, Sylvain is gone. 


	4. Four

True to his word, Felix does go on a scouting expedition with Claude. He just gets back a week earlier than what he’d told Sylvian.

The day of Sylvain’s wedding comes and goes without fanfare, and Felix’s only notice of the event’s occurrence is the eerie calm of the emptied Fraldarius halls (he’s sent representatives— he’s not heartless, nor an idiot). The day passes quietly, so quietly, in fact, that Felix can almost trick himself into thinking he’s forgotten. 

Felix is about to turn in for the night when he hears a knock. 

It’s well past midnight, but Felix often spends nights like this: alone in his quarters, poring over documents from the day, studying battle strategies, brushing up on the latest news and responding to his letters. He hasn’t heard from Sylvain in moons. 

Duties finished for the day, Felix has changed into his nightclothes, his tight, royal robes exchanged for softer, loose roughspun pants and a cotton shirt. His hair is down, and it sweeps over his shoulders, an azure curtain that reminds him how long it’s been since he last cut it.

He toys with the idea of cutting it with the dagger he keeps on his hip at all times, but it’s getting late… and all thoughts are immediately interrupted when he hears a sudden knock on his chamber doors.

Irritated at the late intrusion, he calls out, “What?”

“Duke Fraldarius?” the voice calls, and he recognizes it as one of the servants, Jasper. “You have a visitor.” 

“At this hour?” Felix scoffs, but he still pulls back his hair to pin it. “Who is it?”

“Sylvain Gautier, sir,” the voice calls meekly. Felix frowns. 

“Sylvain is at his wedding.” Felix tries to keep his voice even, but the name catches in his throat. “He can’t possibly be—” 

“Hey Fe, it’s me,” he hears, and the voice is like a bolt into the center of his chest. 

“Can I... can I come in?” Sylvain asks. 

For a brief moment, Felix considers ignoring him. It’s tempting; he could just go to bed now, and when he woke up in the morning, he could pretend like it was all some bad dream. It’s not like Sylvain would kick in his door. 

Except that Sylvain has no conception of boundaries, so he probably would.

Felix sighs and walks over to the door. Before opening, he braces himself, letting his hand hover above the handle for one, two, three long breaths before he swings it open.

Sylvain stands in front of him, emblazoned with the colors of House Gautier. His hair is tousled from the wind, but it’s the most recognizable thing about him. His usual robes have been exchanged for a fancy ensemble of maroon velvet and golden trimmings. He’s wearing more layers than Felix has ever seen on him, draped with expensive silks and belts and chains and embellishments.

It looks like he’s come straight from the ceremony, and Felix’s heart drops. He and Sylvain stare at each other for what feels like hours.

Sylvian speaks first. “I thought you were on a mission,” he says, and he steps into the room.

Felix crosses his arms and leans against his dresser, trying to act as casually as possible with the deafening sound of blood rushing in his ears. Sylvain pulls the chair out from Felix’s desk and sits down.

A thousand questions bubble under the surface of Felix’s skin, but he’s too stubborn to ask any of them. Either that, or he’s too afraid of the answers— Felix can’t be sure of his intentions, at this point.

Eventually, he decides on one. “And I thought you were at a wedding,” he says. It’s a start.

“That’s fair,” Sylvain says, raising his hands defensively. “I left. And what about you?”

Felix sighs, but he doesn’t drop his arms. There was no use in continuing the lie now. “It ended early,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says quietly. “Claude came.”

Felix sighs and rubs his face. If Sylvain already knew that Felix lied, why call him out on it? 

More questions bubble up. Sylvain still hasn’t made any indication of why he sought Felix out, tonight of all nights. Felix thinks he might know why, but— no, it’s too painful, to allow himself to hope like this. Besides, last Felix had checked, he had buried their relationship three moons ago when he stopped responding to Sylvain’s letters and then refused to speak to him. 

Until Sylvain beat it out of him, that is. 

But whatever past conflicts happened between them seem to be on pause, for now, at least. Sylvain is just sitting in Felix’s chair, in Felix’s own room, refusing to meet his eye. And he isn’t saying _anything_. 

Usually, Sylvain is the one to fill their awkward silences. Felix doesn’t know how to hold the silence on his own. 

Felix sighs again, loudly, seeing if that will garner any reaction from Sylvain. When it doesn’t, Felix lets another question slip out.

“Why’d you leave?” Felix asks. 

Sylvain sighs. “I couldn’t marry her,” he says. It sounds sad, but Felix is wary to give Sylvain sympathy; he’s heard this act before. “I ran away from my wedding.”

And all of a sudden, Felix is hit with a glorious rage, and it takes all of his self control not to punch Sylvain in the chest. He laughs coldly. 

“So you’re a runaway bride then? You always did treat women horribly, huh, _Sylvain_?” Felix says, and he hears the glee in his voice, misplaced and grating. “But this? This has to be a new low.”

Sylvain slams his hand down on Felix’s desk, which makes Felix flinch. “Dammit, Felix!” Sylvain yells, clenching his fist. His voice lowers. “Don’t say things like that.”

Felix goes cold. Sylvain looks away and takes a breath. 

“I thought you, of all people, would understand,” Sylvain says. 

Felix rolls his eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean—“

Sylvain explodes. “You know what? Fuck you, Felix!” he yells, standing up sharply from the desk. He takes a step towards Felix and Felix takes one back. “I called off my wedding for you! I wanted you to be there with me and you lied to me!” 

Felix has known Sylvian through abuse, war, and exile, and in all those years, Felix has never seen Sylvain so mad. There is fire in his eyes, and he’s loud, much too loud for this late hour, the fragile shell of his noble civility cracking beneath the weight of his rage. 

“I rode down here…” Sylvain chokes on his words, but he spits out the rest through clenched teeth: “I rode down here the night I was supposed to get married because… because it was you, Felix. It’s always been you.”

_It was… him?_

Felix is frozen. 

Sylvain falls back into his chair like all the air has left him. He drops his head into his hands. “I thought... I thought that maybe, the reason you didn’t come— the reason you’ve been ignoring my letters— is because…”

He takes a shaky breath. “Because I thought you felt the same,” he says, and then laughs coldly. ”But I guess you were right: I _am_ a fool. Goddess, I’m such a fool.”

Felix’s eyes go wide as the shock sets into his bones, cold and heavy. He had always thought he was protecting himself, but instead, he made one critical error— one crucial miscalculation in their years of friendship— and in doing so, he hurt Sylvain in the process.

Felix understands hurt. He has been hurt by friends, by family members, by former classmates who he’d given his trust, by brothers who told him they’d only be gone for a few weeks. But never before has Felix felt the crushing weight of guilt, of knowing he is the only one to blame. In that moment, Felix hates himself: for the way he treated Sylvain, for the way he misunderstood. 

And somewhere, under all of this, Felix thinks he is supposed to feel some exhilaration, maybe, knowing that all of his days spent longing after Sylvain were not in vain. But now, he just can’t seem to access the joy. 

Instead, Felix can’t help but feel like it’s too late.

It hurts to watch Sylvain stare at the floor, probably filled with enough self-loathing for the two of them, but Felix can’t bring himself to speak. He can’t say _anything_. 

_Fuck, why can’t he say anything?_

Felix lied to Sylvain, pushed him away over and over, and Sylvain still came crawling back to him. Who is Felix to deserve something like that, even if it gives him a chance at happiness?

He doesn’t, he reminds himself. He’s lost the right to deserve anything, and Goddess knows he never will deserve someone like Sylvain: someone who will run away from their own wedding, their chance at a perfect, fairytale future to take a chance on Felix, who didn’t even have the decency to return his letters.

He hasn’t even opened them. 

Hot tears gather at the corners of his eyes. Sylvain has laid his heart on the line and it is sitting there, bleeding between them, and Felix can’t bring himself to say anything. _Why can’t he say anything?_

It feels like all the oxygen has left the room and Felix chokes on the air, it’s so thin. His lungs seize and he can’t seem to take another breath. In the midst of his panic, he only knows one thing for sure: he’s going to lose Sylvain if he doesn’t speak. 

“Sylvain,” he says, and then the air leaves him. Sylvain looks up at him, and Felix can see that he’s crying too. Felix’s face grows hot as he forces the confession out of his throat and into the space between them.

“You were right,” Felix says. 

Sylvain pauses, and Felix can only hope that decades of friendship are enough to untangle all of the unspoken things twisted in those three words.

_You were right._

_I was wrong._

_Forgive me._

_I love you._

Felix waits. And after a minute, Sylvain nods, slowly. 

Relief floods him like water, and suddenly his legs are shaking beneath him. He has to take a breath to steady himself.

At the same time, Sylvain stands up and walks towards him, Felix’s body moves before he can think and he meets Sylvain halfway. They stand inches apart, neither of them speaking; Felix can’t remember the last time they’ve stood so close together. It had to be when they were children. He searches Sylvain’s eyes, red-rimmed but as devastatingly beautiful as he can remember.

Felix can see the tear tracks on Sylvain’s face, rivulets that cut through his freckles and descend down his jaw. 

Felix clenches his hand into a fist and then carefully opens it again. 

Holding his breath, he brings his hand up to Sylvain’s face. Wipes away a tear with his thumb. Breathes out. 

He places both hands on either side of Sylvain’s face, and then he leans in to kiss him. 

Sylvain whimpers, and the sound is so heartbreaking that all Felix can do is pull him closer, wrapping his arms around Sylvain’s neck. He can taste tears on his tongue, but he can’t tell who is crying anymore.

They fall to the floor together. Felix helps Sylvain out his robes, layer after layer, until he can press the words _I’m sorry_ onto Sylvain’s bare chest with his lips. For once in his life, Felix can’t stop talking, _you were right_ and _forgive me_ and _Sylvain Sylvain Sylvain_ tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall onto Sylvain’s skin. Sylvain listens, but eventually he shuts Felix up with another searing kiss that leaves his head spinning. 

Felix doesn’t know how to breathe, but it doesn’t scare him anymore.

Sylvain lays Felix down on the pile of clothes and he holds Felix’s face in one hand as they join together, and he doesn’t look away. Felix bites down on the skin of his fist against his mouth to keep himself from crying out.

Felix has had sex on too many beds to count, but this time, pressed into on the hardwood floor of his chambers, padded only by Sylvain’s wedding silks, _this_ time feels the best.

Somehow, it also hurts the most, too.

They don’t speak, communicating in inhales and exhales and whispers and cries, and Felix is full, so full of everything.

When Sylvain finishes, he looks so relieved that it makes Felix want to weep. And when Sylvain finally gets his hands around Felix’s length, pulling him tight against his body, stroking him to a bittersweet completion— Felix finally does.

Spent and tired, Sylvain pulls the two of them into Felix’s bed and wraps them up in Felix’s bedspread. He carefully unpins Felix’s hair and weaves it between his fingers. It almost feels like he’s braiding it; it’s intentional, practiced.

Felix watches the dying candlelight dance on Sylvain’s auburn hair, and he wonders how long he’s wanted this.

Sylvain breaks the peaceful silence with an apology. “I’m sorry, Fe,” he says. His voice sounds as rough as Felix feels.

Felix’s confusion knits his brows. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because I kept you waiting so long,” he says. 

Felix stares for a second, in shock, before burying his head into Sylvain’s chest. It makes Sylvain laugh lightly, and from inside his embrace, Felix’s lips curl upwards into a hidden grin. It’s nice to know he can still make Sylvain smile. 

Sylvain goes back to stroking his hair once more, and Felix is once again amazed by his tenderness. How could someone he screamed at mere hours ago, who was capable of beating him within an inch of unconsciousness, also hold him so gently? Felix wonders if this is what forgiveness feels like. 

Felix never forgave Glenn, and he’s working on forgiving his father. But Sylvain?

When Felix thinks about forgiving Sylvain, it doesn’t seem so hard.

He knows he should apologize too, but the weight of his mistakes are heavy on his chest. He pushes away from Sylvain before he can overthink himself to death, but he just ends up opening and closing his mouth again. Where should he even start?

Felix sighs. “I have been awful to you these past few moons, Syl.”

Sylvain nods. “Yes, but we don’t have to talk about that now,” he says. “Tomorrow can be for apologies. And believe me, I will be wanting an itemized list,” he adds, with a wink.

Felix rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. Tomorrow is for apologies; he can live with that. Goddess knows he has much to apologize for. 

Instead, Felix asks, “Will you go back?” His voice sounds small. He hates it. 

Sylvain sighs. “Not tonight,” he says. “I will be in a world of trouble when I do. I don’t even think the Goddess could protect me from my father’s wrath.”

That makes Felix snort. Sylvain goes back to playing with his hair. “I left my wedding for you, Felix,” he repeats, and Felix feels something warm flourishing in his chest. “The next time I see an altar will be with you standing down the aisle.”

Felix blushes, but even still, he can’t help himself. “So that means you’re my bride?” he teases. 

“Yeah, only cause you’d make a terrible wife,” Sylvain shoots back. He kisses Felix on the forehead, and the gesture makes Felix flush fully crimson. “Glad to have you back, Fraldarius. I was worried with all of the crying that you were going soft on me.”

Felix can only muster a “shut up” before turning away from Sylvain and scooting to the other side of the bed. Sylvain just laughs at his own precociousness.

 _Idiot_ , Felix thinks with a small smile.

Eventually, he reaches his hand out behind him to find Sylvain’s. “I’m— uh… I’m sorry, Sylvain.” Felix lets out a breath. “And I’m really glad to have you here.” 

Sylvain finds Felix's hand underneath the covers and intertwines their fingers. Felix can hear Sylvain's heartbeat in his fingertips, so warm, so real. 


	5. Five

The fifth time Sylvain visits, Felix wakes to a sound in the middle of the night. He’s fallen asleep at his desk, fire burning low— but when Felix opens the door to his room, it’s not a servant standing there but Sylvain. 

He’s a wreck. He looks like he’s just traveled the 200 miles from House Gautier to House Fraldarius on foot. His shoes are caked in ice and mud, trails of it splashed up his armor. His hair is windblown and damp, flecked with melting snowflakes, and his eyes are sunken. Felix stares at him in shock. 

“Hey, Fe,” Sylvain says weakly. 

“Sylvain, what the hell—“

At the mention of his name, Sylvain falls into Felix’s arms indelicately— Felix stumbles to catch him. He slumps forward, a heap of ginger and furs that Felix struggles to keep upright. He smells like sweat and heavy travel, musty and earthy. 

Sylvain starts to shake. It’s small, but with his body pressed against Felix’s there is no way to hide it. 

“What happened?” Felix asks, his voice as quiet as possible. Worry stalls his heart, but he tries to keep his breathing even.

“Felix, my dad died,” Sylvain says. His voice breaks, and Felix falls to his knees. 

They go down together, and Sylvain clutches Felix tightly as he sobs into his shoulders. Felix can feel each heave of Sylvain’s body and he aches. Felix knows all too well the feeling of losing a father.

Felix presses his lips into Sylvain’s hair. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. He rubs circles into Sylvain’s back, presses his forehead into Sylvain’s shoulders and tries to hold him there. 

Sylvain’s grief cuts into him like it’s his own, but Felix can’t dwell on his own hurt right now. Instead, he focuses on taking care of Sylvain, and only him, and that calms the storms in his eyes. It gives him something to do, like a mission, and Felix takes comfort in the familiar.

He searches his closet for some heavy furs, the ones he brings out on the coldest nights of winter, and drapes them around Sylvain’s shoulders to stop him from shivering. Felix stokes the fire and then calls a servant to draw a bath, cradling Sylvain in his arms as it’s prepared. Sylvain protests at first, but gives in when Felix starts removing his armor, traveling furs, riding boots, and undergarments and helps him into the tub. The water is warm enough to flush Sylvian’s skin the same bright red hue as his hair.

Sylvain doesn’t say much, but silent tears fall as Felix tends to him. Sylvain cries as Felix combs through the knots in his hair. He cries as Felix helps him out of the bath and into the soft cotton nightclothes Felix had made for just these visits. He cries and Felix does his best to listen, because he doesn’t know what to say.

Felix also sends a servant to bring up some food, whatever’s leftover from supper. It’s late and there aren’t bound to be many people working, but Felix can't bring himself to leave Sylvain alone. The servants bring up a lukewarm lamb stew and a few slices of a hearty loaf, and Felix arranges it on his desk so Sylvain can eat something.

Felix sits on the floor next to him the entire time.

Sylvain eats ravenously, and Felix wonders when he ate his last meal. He can see the physical toll that the journey to the Fraldarius estate has taken on Sylvain, all those miles in the dead of winter, so he suggests that they both lie down for a while. Felix helps Sylvain out of his chair and to the bed— Sylvain can walk himself, Felix knows that, rationally, but he’s afraid Sylvian will fall apart if he’s left alone, even for a second. So Felix always has a hand on his shoulder, thigh, or brushing through his hair. 

Felix lies down on the bed and Sylvain curls up next to him. For the first time in his life, Sylvain looks small. 

After a while, Sylvain’s breathing begins to even out. He’s relieved when he thinks that Sylvain has finally fallen asleep, but then Sylvain speaks up.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain whispers. He lifts his head, and his eyes are bloodshot and bagged. Felix’s heart breaks a little more.

“Why are you sorry?” Felix asks. He has the urge to grab Sylvain’s face with his hands and keep their eyes trained together, as if by staring into Sylvain’s soul he could somehow ease the pain. 

Sylvain looks away before he speaks. “I know how much it hurts to watch someone you care about lose someone they love.”

“Honestly, of all times, Sylvain, how could you possibly be worried about me?” Felix chides, but he tries to convey some tenderness in his voice, too. 

Sylvain sighs, and another tear falls down his cheek. “Cause I watched you go through it, Fe, and it hurt. I watched you lose your brother, and then your father—“ his voice catches, “—and I couldn’t do a thing. I felt… Powerless.”

When Felix would get wounded on the battlefield and would have to get stitches, Manuela always told him to wait two weeks before trying any strenuous activity. But after a few days, Felix would get antsy and sneak into the training grounds after nightfall. When he would lunge too far, or strike too quickly, the stitches would tug and start to come loose, fresh blood spotting his clothes.

That’s how it feels to think about his father.

Felix remembers how he pushed Sylvain away— how he’d pushed everyone away, including the professor. He remembers Sylvain, sitting outside his door for hours on end, leaving him meals, waiting for him to come out.

Even as he’s able to hold a grieving Sylvain close to him, there is still an ache, a feeling of uselessness, like Felix could be doing more. How is he supposed to just sit idly by when the man he loves is in such pain?

And then, realizing how much Sylvain understands this feeling, a heavy rock of guilt settles in his stomach. 

Sylvain lays his head on Felix’s chest again, a much needed distraction.

“But I didn’t know how much pain you were in, Goddess, I didn’t get it until now,” Sylvain says. His voice is barely above a whisper. He grips the back on Felix’s shirt tightly, balling the fabric into a fist. “It hurts, Fe. It hurts so much. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Felix grimaces. What could he even say to Sylvain at a time like this? He thinks back— again, unprompted— to when his father died. Could anything have helped the pain?

“It just… it takes time,” Felix answers weakly. He remembers people telling him that when he was grieving his father, and honestly, he just wanted to stab them.

Sylvain sniffles into his shirt. “That’s what they all say,” Sylvain says. It’s muffled into Felix’s chest. “Now I feel like an asshole for telling people that it just “takes time” for things to get better. Such bullshit,” he spits.

Felix chuckles despite himself. Sylvain fidgets, a signal that he wants to be released from Felix’s death-grip. Felix relaxes, mumbling a  _ sorry _ as Sylvain sits up on the bed and runs a hand through his hair. It’s a mess, almost as mussed up as it was when he first arrived. 

Sylvain scoots to the edge of the bed, where he kicks his legs out as if he’s going to get off, but instead, he just sits and stares at the ground. 

He almost looks young. Felix follows him, mirroring his position.

“I think— I feel bad,” Sylvain says. He tips his head towards Felix so that they can lock eyes. “I was so _angry_ at him for so much of my life. For the way he treated me, for Miklan, for forcing me into the margrave position so soon after the war… not to mention the wedding, for Goddess’s sake. I don’t think we spoke for weeks after that happened.” 

Felix is taken aback. He was forced to take on the title of Duke Fraldarius once the war ended because there was literally no one else, but Sylvain… Felix had thought that it was Sylvain’s fear of being left behind by all of his friends that had motivated him to succeed his father so quickly. Felix had no idea.

Sylvain sighs. “I don’t know why I’m so sad. I thought I’d be… relieved.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. He looks at his feet. “I get that.”

“You do?”

Felix lifts his head to meet Sylvain’s wide-eyed expression.

“Yeah, I…” Felix scrunches his nose. He’s never voiced these feelings out loud, and now that he has to articulate them, he feels like an asshole. He takes a deep breath before continuing.

“Well, I never really forgave my dad, for a lot of reasons. After Glenn was killed, he treated me like I was a replacement. I know how hard he tried...” Felix’s voice falters and he has to blink back tears. “But, um— It hurt. When he died. A lot. I was still mad at him at the time, and the grief felt… wrong.”

After he finishes talking, Felix tries to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He hates his body for betraying him— the first time he cries this entire night and it’s for his own problems. Goddess, Felix can’t even help someone else without making it about himself.

Luckily, it seems like Sylvain doesn’t seem to notice; he’s back to staring at the far wall in Felix’s room. Felix bites his lips to stop the flow of tears and takes Sylvain’s hand, bringing their interlocked fingers to his mouth so he can kiss them. Sylvain’s expression softens, and he looks to Felix again.

Even so broken as he is, Sylvain is the most beautiful person Felix has ever seen. He makes a note to tell Sylvain later, when things are better.

“I feel bad for feeling bad, if that makes sense,” Sylvain says. “There’s so much I regret saying, and  _ not  _ saying—” he laughs dryly. “I don’t know how to say it… What I’m feeling, exactly.”

Felix squeezes Sylvain’s hand, and keeps his mouth shut. He hopes Sylvain knows that he can take his time. Felix would wait forever.

After a while, Sylvain speaks again. “I think I’m so sad because I’m losing a father, but not because I’m losing my father.”

His words snap a string in Felix’s heart. In the span of a few minutes, Sylvain seems to have processed and articulated his own grief, and also untangled the mess that Felix had been stuck trying to figure out for the better part of the last five years.

“Um, that’s how I felt… As well,” Felix manages to stutter out. How did he find such an emotionally intelligent partner? It feels like Sylvain is helping him more than he’s helping Sylvain.

“Of course you do, Fe,” Sylvain says, and he wraps his arm around Felix’s shoulder. “You’ve always understood me so well.” He kisses the top of Felix’s head. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, his lips brushing over Felix’s hair. 

Felix grimaces. “I didn’t do anything.” He’s fumbling now. Felix had felt so sure of himself when he was taking care of Sylvain— holding him, washing him, brushing his hair— but Felix didn’t have to say anything then. 

“Yeah, you did. You are,” Sylvain says firmly. He gently places cups his hands around Felix’s face, and coaxes Felix to face him. Sylvain strokes the side of his cheeks with his thumbs and looks, really looks at Felix. 

“You listened to me. You were there for me when I needed you. You don’t know how much that means to me,” Sylvain says, his eyes sincere and searching. 

Suddenly, Felix feels the fierce urge to protect Sylvain, to shield him from all harmful things. He knows it’s not possible, but if he could make Sylvain believe it, even for just a moment— maybe Sylvain would be able to feel the love radiating off of Felix’s skin, and he could take some for himself, hold it close to his heart. Maybe then, Sylvain would feel better. 

And maybe Felix would, too.

“I’ll always be here for you,” Felix says. His voice is clear and strong. “I promised you we’d die together. That means I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

Sylvain nods, and Felix nods back, and then he pulls Sylvain to his chest once more. Felix wraps his arms around him tightly, and Sylvain slumps in them. 

Felix wants to hold him forever, if only his arms could be the lifeline Sylvain needs to make the pain stop. Felix knows he can’t do that, but he’s  _ trying. _

Sylvain shifts in his arms. “Take me to bed?” he asks softly. 

Felix kisses his forehead. “Yeah, Sylvain. I’ve got you.”

This time, Felix makes sure Sylvain is asleep, before he blows out the candle on his bedside table and pulls the covers up to his shoulders. He wraps his arms around Sylvain’s torso as best he can, pressing their bodies closely together. There may come a time when he won’t be able to hold Sylvain, a time when he won’t be able to protect him from pain, or cradle him when he cries, but tonight: Felix holds on tight. 


	6. One

Spring comes and goes with less fanfare than expected, and before he knows it, the castle is bathed in warm sunlight more time than it isn’t. On one particular, not-so-special sunny afternoon, Felix takes a horse out. His love of the animals has grown significantly in the past year, not  just because of his boyfriend’s love of taking horse rides, but that is a big part of it.

Felix sets out to ride the perimeter of the castle, just to stretch his back and feel the afternoon sun on his tired eyes, but before he knows it, he’s traveling North towards house Gautier. 

It’s not a conscious choice; Felix just rides along the road, following the winding trails that lead behind the castle and past the village on the outskirts of the Fraldarius estate. His mind wanders, and when he catches his hands steering his horse’s reins away from the castle, he lets them. The sun is still high in the sky, and Gautier’s lands are little more than a half-day’s ride to the North. He figures he doesn’t have to push his mare to more than a gentle trot. 

(Of course the castle would be worried about him, but the Duke of Fraldarius was known to disappear for a few days on end, requesting solitude as he contemplated one diplomatic problem or another. Usually, Felix simply locked himself in his quarters, but he’d also been known to take the occasional trip to Fhirdiad or Galatea if he was feeling particularly antsy.)

As he rides, Felix thinks of all the times Sylvain has made this journey. Did he take the main roads, or did he prefer to follow the river, like Felix? The river has always been more calming to Felix, out of the hustle and commotion of the main roads. Even with the peace on Fódlan, shifty merchants and mercenaries were still known to lie in wait in the bushes that flanked the paths, hoping to come across some rich noble or clueless traveler to fall into their trap. Felix has made many enemies over the years, and so he wasn’t quick to test his luck.

Felix watches the landscape pass him by, his thoughts ever trained on his destination. Never has he been the one to visit Sylvain unaccompanied, to throw caution to the wind and drop by spontaneously, even though Sylvain had knocked on his door at the 11th hour many times. The countryside passes quickly, blending between Fraldarius lands into Gautier territory with the wind. He rides by villages tucked away in the mountains that lay to the east, single houses along the riverbank, the smoky remains of campfires, even an encampment with wagons and no shortage of swords. It looks like trouble, and so Felix makes a mental note of the location to write down when he next stops to water his horse.

The afternoon races by faster than Felix rides. The sun is beginning to slope over the flat plains of Itha when Felix starts to wonder if he’d miscalculated the distance, or whether he’d taken a wrong turn. He spurs his horse forward with his heels, turning the reins in the direction of the main road. He figures he’ll find a comfy inn for the night and set out at first light tomorrow. But when he exits the forest, Felix can see the towering walls of Gautier castle in the distance. 

Despite himself, he breaks into a grin. Felix whips the reins and thunders forward.

When he arrives at the castle doors, it only takes one look at his royal garments and the shield on his back for the guards to usher him in quickly. He dismisses the servants waiting for him within the main gates and makes his way into the castle. Felix hasn’t needed directions since he was five.

He finds Sylvain’s room easily. He is about to rap his knuckles against the thick wooden door when uncertainty grips his wrist and keeps it from knocking. Felix swallows. He hadn’t felt any doubts on the journey over, or as he had climbed the cobbled steps of his old stomping grounds. He runs his fingers along the stones in front of him. Is Sylvain in his chambers? And more importantly, does he even want to see Felix?

There are many reasons Felix has never dropped in on Sylvain, and his insecurities are all of them.

Felix sighs. He’s come this far, and— he reasons— this wouldn’t be the first time he’s slept in Sylvain’s bed without him.

But before Felix can knock, the door swings open with a rush of air.

Sylvain’s eyes go wide with shock, but when he registers Felix’s presence, he breaks into the most shit-eating grin Felix has ever seen. 

“Why, Duke Fraldarius, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Sylvain asks. He crosses his arms and cocks his head at Felix. Felix immediately rolls his eyes, wondering if it’s too early to leave.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Felix says anyway, a smirk playing on his lips. “Thought I’d drop by.”

“Oh, well that is a  spectacular reason to visit. What say we commemorate this occasion?” Sylvain says. He pulls Felix inside the doorway, and Felix is once again reminded of just how large Sylvain’s hands are. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius, showing up on my doorstep? Goddess, what did I do right?” 

Felix kicks the door closed behind him. “If you insist on calling me by my full name, I’m going to leave.” 

Sylvain laughs, a mirthless, biting sound that wraps itself right around Felix’s heart and squeezes. He steps forward, crowding into Felix’s space, so that Felix is pressed up against the thick oaken door, the one he stood outside of mere moments ago, wishing, wondering if Sylvain wanted him. 

Felix is such a fool.

“Is that a threat, Fraldarius?” Sylvain whispers. He towers over Felix, and his eyes are trained on Felix's lips.

Felix licks them for good measure. “That’s my  word, ” he growls, and before he can move, Sylvain grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a searing kiss.

They crash into one another, just like they’ve always done. Kissing Sylvain always feels like a fight, but for once in his life winning isn’t the only thing on Felix’s mind. He’s content just to hold Sylvain in his arms, take him apart piece by piece, kiss by kiss, listening to the symphony of Sylvain’s moans and sharp inhales. Felix would take that over winning any day. 

Sylvain latches on to his neck, sucking in what Felix knows will be a dark, rosy bruise. He tilts his head back against the door and bears his throat, free for Sylvain to take as he pleases.

It hurt, at first, to yield himself to someone else’s touch, to expose the dirty corners of his soul as someone raked their eyes over his naked skin. But it got easier as time passed, and Felix learned. His partners would ask questions and Felix would try to answer, but Sylvain was always the best one at listening. In turn, Felix loves him in the best way he can— by submitting. 

They fall to the bed before all of their clothes hit the floor, and Felix’s trousers are still bunched around one of his ankles when Sylvain takes him roughly from behind. Felix moans, open mouthed, into the plush duvet on Sylvain’s bed, probably something too noble and expensive to be debauched like this. The thought would be laughable if Felix were capable of such emotions, but at the current moment he is being pressed into a bedspread and is so full of Sylvain that he has been reduced down to the most basal parts of himself, and they are want, desire, and  more . 

Felix tells Sylvain that, his voice half muffled and broken by groans, and Sylvain responds by pulling out. Before Felix can protest, he is flipped onto his back and Sylvain clambers onto the bed, hooking Felix’s left leg over his shoulder and sinking in deep with an open mouth kiss. 

Felix’s eyes wrench shut and he weakly reaches out for Sylvain. Sylvain grabs one of his hands and pins it to the bed, intertwining their fingers and gripping tightly. Felix’s other hand finds Sylvain’s face as they kiss. He gently strokes the side of Sylvain’s cheek, and Sylvain rocks their bodies into oblivion. 

Once they both have had their way with each other, too spent and tired for baths, Sylvain sends a servant for some tea. Felix argues, but Sylvain holds him firmly to his chest and insists.

Felix sighs. He never wins these things. 

The servant brings back two steaming cups, left outside Sylvain’s door as per his instructions, and they drink it quietly together in Sylvain’s bed. Eventually, Felix dozes off in the warmth of Sylvain’s arms, but when he wakes, silvery moonlight is streaming lazily through the curtains and Sylvain is at his desk. 

Felix picks himself up to look at him. Sylvain is dressed— well, to say he’s dressed is generous. He’s donned a pair of cotton trousers and sits shirtless at his desk. He seems to be writing something important, if his reading glasses are any indication. The warm candlelight hits his back at just the right angle, illuminating the curves of his muscles, the shape of his spine, the silvery scars that glint when he moves— the only indication that he’s real and not a dream. Felix has scars of his own, and sometimes, Sylvain likes to trace his fingers over them as if to remind himself of the close calls, the times Felix danced the line between life and death with reckless abandon. When he does that, Felix has to hold Sylvain’s face in both of his hands and try his best to apologize. 

“Good evening, sleeping beauty,” Sylvain says without turning around. Felix huffs and tosses one of Sylvain’s many decorative throw pillows at him. 

He misses. On purpose. 

“I’ll be back in a second,” Sylvain says. He tosses the pillow back on to the bed. “I have to get this mission brief done by tomorrow morning.”

He dips his quill again. “I was working on it earlier, before a certain someone interrupted,” he says, looking pointedly at Felix. 

Felix rolls his eyes, and then untangles himself from the covers to locate his trousers at the base of the bed. He pulls them on with a yawn and goes to stand over Sylvain’s shoulder. 

“What’s this?” he asks. 

Sylvain sets his glasses to the side and tilts the paper up so that Felix can read it. Felix drapes himself over Sylvain (earning him a chuckle) and examines it. 

“Bandits on the north river?” Felix muses aloud. Suddenly, he remembers something from his earlier journey. “I think I may have passed them on my way here,” he says. “I was off of the main roads, and I saw an encampment by the riverbank. Do you think it’s the same group?”

Sylvain tilts his head back into Felix, resting on his collarbone. “Hm. Could be,” he says. He glances up at Felix. “Did you happen to write down their location?”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Who do you think I am?”

He unwraps himself and finds his bag by the door to Sylvain’s quarters, right where he dropped it. 

“That’s my boy,” Sylvain says. 

Felix scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. There’s something that stirs inside Felix’s chest when he hears Sylvain call him  “mine,” but it’ll be a while before Felix will admit to that. 

He squats down to rifle through his bag, pulling out the map where he’d marked the location of the group. He brings it back to Sylvain and stretches it out on the desk. 

“You saw them here?” he asks, and Felix nods. Sylvain sighs. “Yeah, that makes sense. This morning’s council meeting had reports of them heading Southeast. We wanted to intercept them before they could reach the smaller towns in Itha, but…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. Felix watches it. 

“At this point, we would be lucky to reach them before tomorrow evening,” Sylvain says, pointing further south on the map. Felix squints.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to send Fraldarius troops?” he asks. “They’re practically on our borders at that point.”

Sylvain smiles. “Yeah, but they were here first. I feel like it’s our responsibility.”

Felix starts to grow irritated, incensed by Sylvain’s irrational logic. What seems clear to Felix has always taken a while to make it through Sylvain’s thick head, though, so he tries to maintain his air of calm. 

“Reasonably, though, it would make more sense if we intercepted them first,” Felix says. 

“Or we could send two parties to cut them off at the Fork,” Sylvain says, and points to the two rivers that run through northern Faerghus to join as one. 

It’s a known spot, good for ambush, Felix reasons, which means the bandits will know about it and avoid it. But if they were already making their way down the south river to avoid the main roads, then passing through the Fork would be inevitable… 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Sylvain asks, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Felix’s hand to bring him back to reality. Sylvain is watching him, and his face grows warm. 

“Nothing,” Felix replies. He places one hand on the side of his head, thinking. “It’s all so complicated, running a territory.”

Sylvain snorts, as if to say Felix is making the understatement of the millennium. 

“It’s just cause our territories are so close,” Sylvain says. “Not that I’m complaining, though,” he adds with a wink. 

Felix lets it slide. “Yeah. All of our problems overlap,” he says. “It would honestly be easier to just combine our two lands—“

Felix is about to finish with “ Goddess knows we could help with Sreng ,” when he sees Sylvain looking up at him with wide eyes and a funny expression on his face. 

“What?”

Sylvain clears his throat and then smiles. It’s small, timid almost, and Felix can see a blush creeping up his neck. 

“Well, it almost sounds like you proposed to me, Felix.”

Felix’s eyes go wide steps backwards instinctively. “Um… I—” Felix sputters, looking around the room anxiously. It’s not that he  doesn’t want to be with Sylvain for the rest of his life, but he doesn’t know if he’s ready for that specific kind of commitment, and, more importantly, if he were, he wouldn’t have proposed like  that—

Felix’s train of thought is frozen when Sylvain begins to laugh. “Oh, Felix, I’m sorry!” he says, between his laughter he is not trying to contain in any way. “I was just teasing. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Felix blushes fiercely and he crosses his arms over his chest, which he knows for a fact is also red. He looks away and mumbles, “It’s fine, I was just joking too.” 

Sylvain stands up and reaches out his arms. “Come here,” he says, and Felix shuffles into his hug, still feeling embarrassed and a bit self conscious. Sylvain kisses his forehead.

“You ok?” he asks.

Felix scoffs and pushes out of Sylvain’s arms. “Of course I’m ok,” he says defensively. “I just—” he clears his throat, for good measure, “—I didn’t think you’d take my idea so… seriously.”

“Felix, you know I’m only kidding,” Sylvian. “Besides, I know you would never propose to me like that.” 

“You were the one who brought up proposals,” Felix mutters under his breath, but Sylvain doesn’t seem to hear him. He takes Felix’s hand.

“Do you ever think about marriage?” he asks softly. Before Felix can respond, he adds, “Cause I do.”

Felix looks up at Sylvain, only to see him staring out the window. His eyes are far away, almost wistful. Does he tell Sylvain the truth— that he’s never considered marriage as an option? That the very institution of marriage has been soured for him ever since he was a little boy, and his father told him about what it meant to be a noble with a Crest?

Does he tell Sylvain that he never imagined he could marry for love, until maybe this moment?

“I… I don’t know,” Felix answers, as honestly as he can. 

“That’s okay,” Sylvain says. He tilts his head. “I get it. The idea of marriage kinda sucks, nowadays. Hell, I almost had to spend the rest of my life with someone I didn’t love.” He grimaces at the words.

“But I meant what I said that night, you know. About marrying you. If I’m ever going to do that again, it’s going to be you Felix,” Sylvain says, and Felix can feel the weight of Sylvain’s words in his bones. He and Sylvain don’t often say  I love you . Instead, they say things like this.

“I’m not so fond of the whole marriage thing,” Felix admits. “To be honest, I didn’t ever see myself getting married.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says with a nod. He turns back to his desk and sits down.

The conversation lulls into silence. It’s not an awkward silence, or one that necessarily needs to be filled, but Felix feels like there is more left to say. 

“But I meant what I said, too,” he blurts out, a little too loudly. Sylvain lifts his head to look at him. Felix swallows his self-consciousness and continues. “I think that we should consider combining our territories. I know it’s a radical decision, but let’s look at the facts: most of our conflicts have overlapped anyways, and we’re always sending soldiers to support one another. Also, you know that we could help with the border with Sreng. We have more troops, and we could easily supply enough to build another outpost—”

Felix cuts himself off before he can ramble himself to death. He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“I’m just saying, logistically, it would be in our best interest. And… Well, if combining territories means that we get to spend more time together, and maybe live in the same castle, I… I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

Sylvain stands up from his desk, biting his lip like he’s trying to suppress some silly grin. He steps closer to where Felix stands, placing his hands on Felix’s waist, waiting. 

“Are you in?” Felix asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“We’ll turn a lot of heads, you know. And we’ll have to talk to Dimitri. He still runs the country,” Sylvain says. Felix can feel Sylvain’s hands pressing into his hips eagerly, and Felix rolls his eyes. Why does Sylvain insist on dragging everything out?

“I’ve had people staring at me my whole life. I don’t care what they think,” Felix shoots back. He drapes his arms over Sylvain’s shoulders, cocking his hip in a way that he hopes is seductive. “So, are you in?” 

“Of course I’m in, Felix. I’d love to finally be in the same place as you,” Sylvain says. He kisses Felix, and it’s awkward because he’s smiling and the kiss is mostly teeth, but Felix really wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“No more dropping in on each other, then?” Sylvian says, pulling away from the kiss. He looks wistfully out the window, but Felix knows he’s faking. “If we’re being honest, I’m going to miss surprising you at random hours of the day. Or night.”

Felix grabs Sylvain’s face in his hand and turns it to look him dead in the eye. The gesture hard enough to startle Sylvain, but gentle enough to still convey love.

And Felix does. He really does love Sylvain.

Felix grins, one of his rare, open-mouthed smiles, the ones he only reserves for Sylvain and that always make Sylvain blush. 

A fire roars under Felix’s skin. “I’m sure this isn’t the end, Syl. We can always find ways to surprise each other,” he says.

Sylvain lets out a happy little sound, something between a whimper and a moan, and then dips his head down to nose at Felix’s jaw before trailing kisses down his neck. Felix tilts his head back and looks around the room. 

Sylvain’s room is big enough, with a king-size bed and two mahogany wardrobes. There is a large chest near the door (where Felix’s riding clothes have now been piled), and a surprisingly shabby desk, cluttered with maps and parchment and books and ink jars. 

Felix thinks back to his own room, with its many bookshelves, heirlooms, and decorative swords. He tries to imagine them in Sylvain’s bedroom, and suddenly the space gets crowded.

Felix smiles. It looks like he’ll have to move some things around, but— he thinks to himself— he can make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece is incredibly special to me in the time it took to write and also in the amount of love I poured into it. If you made it to the end, thank you so so much for taking the time to read my big bang! I also want to give one more thank you to my artist, who worked so hard to make so many gorgeous illustrations for this fic. Finally, if you want, you can find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/phichithamsters).


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